


Words to Steal Your Heart Away

by second_skin



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Word Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 04:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Erik and Charles have a new way to pass the time.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words to Steal Your Heart Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts).



> Fulfilling a much delayed promise to write something for fengirl88's 5 Acts Meme. She likes words, of course, so . . .  
> Written for the "Aphrodisiac" square of Love Bingo. Words/language as aphrodisiac.

“Cardigans,” Erik says. And then he’s breathily whispering, for emphasis, “Stupid, ugly cardigans.”

Erik is slouching deep into the sofa, legs stretched long and crossed ankle over ankle. Charles is distracted by the shine of the black boots that are within an inch or two of touching his own weathered, sensible brown loafers as he relaxes in the armchair opposite his friend. He’s been so distracted by the sheen and supple leather of those boots that he’s not realized Erik is playing the game again. The same game they’ve been playing on and off for a few weeks. It’s silly, really. It just started as a way to kill time on the road. Now it’s a thing they do after dinner and before Cronkite’s latest updates on the Red Menace.

They can’t seem to stop.

It’s a word game Raven made up when they were kids. Charles taught Erik while they were driving to Chicago, and he seems to like it. Seems to like using it to frustrate Charles in all manner of childish ways. Trying to make him blush. Trying to embarrass him, make him giggle. Trying to make him . . . hard.

So the thing is, Charles actually doesn’t think it’s quite proper the way Erik takes Charles’s own game and twists it to suit his warped sense of humor. He doesn’t like it a bit, and he’s told Erik in no uncertain terms . . . Except that really, Charles does like it. Charles likes feeling he’s the center of Erik’s attention. Likes knowing that Erik is spending an absurd amount of time thinking of ways to make Charles blush, get embarrassed and frustrated and . . . really hard.

Erik’s eyes are closed and he steeples his fingers under his chin as he waits for Charles to respond. And Charles wants nothing more than to rise from the armchair and kiss those paper-thin eyelids, those sculpted cheekbones, that smirking mouth.

But they don’t do that. Charles _won't_ do that.

They don’t acknowledge the heat and want and various and sundry inconvenient feelings that they’re tossing back and forth between them in a rather intense game of catch lately. And Charles has never liked baseball, by the way. Though he wouldn’t mind seeing Erik in a Yankees cap, swinging a very long bat.

Charles barely stifles a sigh and shifts in his chair. Dammit.

They should probably discuss this. This situation. But Charles still feels so overwhelmed by what he’s seen of Erik’s memories—one good and the rest unfathomably horrible—that he can’t quite sort it all out. To everyone else, Erik is arrogant, strong—clearly the most powerful of them all. To Charles, he is fragile, breakable. Charles wants to touch him, but imagines him shattering into a thousand jagged metal pieces, and it’s worse than any nightmare he’s ever had.

So they play games. They tease, but don’t touch. And that makes things easier, Charles tells himself.

So Erik starts the game, as usual, with a dig at what he thinks is Charles’s uptight, _Father Knows Best_ lack of fashion sense. Erik says “cardigans.” The game now requires Charles to say a word that starts with the last letter of Erik’s word, and that describes Erik in some way. When they were kids, Charles and Raven would hurl ridiculous insults at each other, then giggle for hours. “Ducklips.” “Blueberrybutt.” Age has brought some subtlety at least. Maybe.

 

“Slovenly,” says Charles. Of course, Erik is anything but slovenly. But the black turtleneck has a tiny hole at the shoulder, and Charles can see a sliver of pale skin.

“Yenta,” says Erik, already pulling out one of the five languages he speaks with ease. Something he lords over Charles, who has just a little Russian and schoolboy French to work with.

“Asshole,” Charles is actually a bit annoyed at being called a _yenta_. Is Erik trying to emasculate him?

“Eloquent,” answers Erik with a graceful wave of his hand and a wicked smile. “You’re just always so eloquent, Professor.”

“Temptation.” Charles isn’t sure why that’s the word that comes out of his mouth. He’d like to take it back.

Erik opens his eyes finally, and Charles turns away from their light and heat, finding it easier to look at the flames crackling in the fireplace across the room.

“Naïve.”

Charles feels a little vibration against his body as the springs in the chair coil tighter under Erik's influence. He wets his lips and hesitates. He’s thinking, _If you think I’m so naïve, Erik Lehnsherr, then come over here and educate me._

But before he can come up with an appropriately insulting response, the door flies open and Raven and Hank stumble in, arguing and demanding that Charles settle a dispute about who gets the last piece of banana cream pie in the fridge.

Charles hears Erik’s frustration in the _click, click, click_ as he tests the bolt on the door to make sure it’s in working order. Erik stands and pointedly shoves a thought at Charles, piercing his defenses. “We’re locking the door next time.” And he abruptly strides away, leaving Charles to tend to the children alone.

 

 

When Charles returns to the library before bedtime to pick up the spy novel he’s been reading, he finds a word circled near the bottom of a dog-eared page: “erect.” Hilarious. Another attempt to embarrass him.

He knows Erik is trying to continue the game, but it feels too dangerous now. Charles is tired, he’s had a glass of wine to calm his jangled nerves after breaking up multiple arguments among the teenagers. He just needs to brush his teeth and crawl into bed with his book . . .

“Tungen.”

A small piece of paper wrapped around his toothbrush. Bold, precise block letters. Charles holds onto the sink and breathes deeply. Damn show-off. Is that Danish or Swedish or what? He’s twitching. The corner of his left eye and other places. He forces himself to brush his teeth and wash his face.

He changes into his pajamas and finds another piece of paper in the small pocket of his pajama top.

“ _Nariz. Zehen._ Neck. Knees. _Schultern_. Nape. Elbo.” Charles snorts. Does the man really not know how to spell it?

Charles is feeling slightly dizzy now. Is he supposed to respond to this? Erik is just naming body parts—that’s really not in the correct spirit of the game. Charles pulls back the covers and sits on the edge of the bed, trying to think.

Erik has taken Angel’s pink lipstick and written “Orgasm?” across the white pillow case.

He bursts into laughter tosses the pillow across the room. Spelled that one right, at least.

Charles notices a photograph tucked under the alarm clock on his bedside table. It’s black and white—a snapshot Erik took when they were on their mutant-finding trip. An afternoon they spent in Golden Gate Park. It was the one warm day they had in that chilly, vibrant city, and the sun had felt glorious, Charles remembers. They’d both taken off their shirts and laid in the sweet-smelling grass. Quiet. Peaceful. God, how he’d wanted . . . He looks again at the photograph. Erik has used a black ballpoint pen, pressing hard enough to dent the surface with each stroke. He’s written the word “MINE” across Charles’s chest.

Charles’s mouth is dry and he can feel his heart beating _quick, quick, quick_ in his throat now, as his bedroom door opens and Erik slips in. He’s in his threadbare plaid pajama bottoms, and Charles smiles for a moment, thinking again, “slovenly.” He’s not wearing a top. Charles marvels at the beautiful curves and bulk of the muscles on his slender frame. And he can’t think of what the next word in the game should be. He can’t think of any words, really.

He swallows twice to wet his mouth enough to speak. What begins with _E_?  Oh yes. “Erik . . .”

Erik grins that huge, wicked grin again, and steps closer, pulling Charles up from the bed and into his arms, whispering against his lips, “Kiss?”

“Sure,” says Charles, the last word of the game lost on Erik’s tongue.

 


End file.
